Need
by Le Masque31
Summary: "You come to me one night, when silence haunts the fortress and the stars cast their pale radiance over the mountains." A ficlet exploring the darker side of Melkor and Mairon's relationship. Written from Melkor's perspective. SLASH. Angbang. Rated for depictions of BDSM. More warnings inside. One-shot.


**Warnings: **BDSM; bondage; blood-play; knife-play.

**A/N:** My head-canons about these two have been irreversibly influenced by theeventualwinter (markedasinfernal on Tumblr). If you are looking for Angbang with a dash of very good (and emotionally devastating) writing, check out her works.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

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><p>You come to me one night, when silence haunts the fortress and the stars cast their pale radiance over the mountains. Your knock is soft, barely heard, but still it rouses me from my work, and with a sigh I step away from the sheaves of parchment sprawled across my desk and the guttering candle beside them. Its flame wavers fretfully in the whoosh of cool air that rushes in from the corridor beyond, and for a moment I squint in the gloom, taking my eyes for deceivers.<p>

I did not expect to see you, Mairon. You never seek me in my chambers, not of your own accord, and most definitely not at an hour so bereft of decency; for it is late, and Angband lies quiescent beneath the haze of slumber. But not so with you, it seems. You are here, and in the darkness of the passageway your features seem stitched together of hard lines and shadows.

But as I shuffle aside and you stride over the threshold, candlelight breaks across your face, as though skirting wax. You are pale, Mairon, and still shadows clot in the hollow beneath your cheekbones, but you lift your eyes to mine and the gold in them is burning.

You seem fey as you stand there clasping your hands together, wringing them in unconscious little tics; as your lips part to speak, but the words shiver there and will not be outed, and you swallow them back down in thwarted purpose, you frown in frustration. Tension quivers in your shoulders and need shows raw as a wound in your face, and suddenly I understand.

You want me to fuck you, here, in the dim, surreal half-light of my chambers.

It is a game we have played before. My hands would be rough upon your face, slipping into your hair, tugging until you cry out in pain. I would shove you against the pillar veiled in a forgotten corner of the room, and your back would shriek at the impact. My fingers would be iron round your wrists, yanking them upward, high above your head, and you would test the manacles, wrenching at them with corded muscles. You would slump against the pillar then, and blood would thunder through your veins, giddy with recklessness, with exhilaration; for you would be trapped, Mairon, dangling as a puppet to my whims.

Entropy would become legion and fire would blaze in its wake; lieutenant you would be no longer, and the eyes of the world would be shuttered—duties quelled, and _finally_ ghosting in sighs over your lips, vulnerability glorious in the taut arc of your throat as your head tips back.

And I would sink my teeth into that tender flesh, and taste your essence, Mairon, your blood and your sweat; I would let my tongue flick against your throbbing pulse, even as your tunic droops in tatters from your torso. My blade would find your skin, slicing vermilion curlicues, pale ribbons of flesh blushing with gore. And all the while you would struggle against your bonds. You would writhe, Mairon; you would sob and plead. I know you want me to cup your cheeks and wipe away your tears. You want me to kiss your trembling lips in wordless promise, to coax them open and twine my tongue with yours.

And then I would snarl, and jerk away so harshly that you would flinch. You want me to spin you round and flay you. You want my whip flaming across your skin, and you want bruises blossoming like rotten, demented petals in its wake. You crave the cruel sting; the way it bites at your thoughts until they flee and raw carnality swells to fill their place.

You want me to grasp your hips, my nails scoring bloody furrows in your alabaster skin. You want me to tear your pride from your clutch; to display you so lewdly that surely the crimson will never fade from your cheeks; to work you open carelessly, with fingers slick with saliva buried knuckle-deep within you until your vision quails and blackens. The joy would be mine also, a sick burst of pleasure at the base of my stomach; this defilement, grace scorned, a statue aloof in its cold marble perfection suddenly deluged in gore; suddenly touched and mauled, alive with agony and lust and broken, beautiful need.

Need, yes, and I would growl in answer; I need to have you, Mairon. I need to feel your tight heat clenching round me. I need to hear your hoarse cries, your pleas for _harder_, _faster_, _more_. I need to see your gold-crowned head tilt back against my shoulder, your porcelain neck livid with the grooves of my teeth; your eyes would be closed, and you would be panting through flushed cheeks because finally, _finally_—

You do things to me, my fallen angel. I would rut desperately against you, the slick feel of your blood against my torso, its smell, its taste clinging to my lips—it is intoxication, Mairon, and just for a moment I would lose myself in you. You want me to reach lower, to slide my hand down your heaving belly to grasp your length—so hard, jumping into my palm, and you would be leaking, bucking into my fingers and keening in delirious pleasure. Lascivious glee would grin within me at that naked, brilliant sound, and suddenly I would need to hear it again; to fuck you so deep that your composure would crack and crumble utterly, that cries of passion debased and unlordly and completely delectable would brim in your throat.

My thrusts would wax just that little bit rougher, and you would whimper though your teeth tear at your lower lip. You want to hold back—_not yet_, _not yet_—but traitorously you would murmur _please_, you would beg me to seal this aching delight and make it absolute; and my fingers would tease your tip, swirling, dipping into your glistening slit, and you would be screaming, Mairon, thrashing reckless and wild in my arms.

You would convulse round me, so exquisitely tight, and I would push in to the hilt, my orgasm burning like a glede and overflowing in rills of liquid pleasure through my limbs. My lips would form your name, breathe it against your ear, and bliss would consume my world for a few shivering seconds—bliss and you.

You want me to cradle you in my arms afterwards. You want me to dress your wounds with gentle hands, and pepper your smiling, sweaty face with kisses, and pretend that I do not care for your motives.

But I do care, Mairon. So when you come to me in the dead of night, for once I neither ask nor listen. I curl my fingers round your chin and lift your head tenderly, and there is a glimmer of surprise in your auric eyes. You are beautiful, Mairon, weary though you are, and for a second you forget your guardedness, and something naked blazes in your features.

I cajole you toward the bed, and you do not resist. I sit you down, and fold you in a tight embrace, and you collapse limp against me, head bent upon my shoulder, face seeking the shelter of my neck. I card my fingers through your gold-spun hair, and I can feel a sob catch in your throat.

My voice is low and soft when I inquire after your motives, and your fingers twist in my tunic; convulsive, a denial, but then you melt into me, and you are weeping. You speak nothing of your thoughts; but you do not have to, not to me. I know the names they have spat at you—traitor from now unto eternity—and still they sizzle like a brand; you have taken them for your own, as baptism in blood, and they skewer through you and split open all those things you would rather forget. There are darker things too, Mairon, and these are buried so deep that they have never seen the light of day; fell, leering things howling in mirth, in doom, and they sweep like carrion-birds upon bloodshed and death; agony is their revel, tears a steaming waterfall to sluice their sins. I know they frighten you.

Affection billows in my chest until I cannot breathe for the need to pull you closer, to hold you and tell you that everything will be all right; to _make_ everything all right. There is pity there too, though you would revile it and hurl it back at my feet; but you are dashing yourself against rocks, Mairon, against the ancient roots of the mountains, and gladly would they drink of your blood. Yet I say nothing. I dip my head instead and press my lips to your hair, and you cling to me; lost and lonely, and my heart aches for you.

I do not stem your thoughts with violence tonight; I do not check your sin with even greater sin. I take you to my bed, and wrap my arms round you even as you sniffle into your sleeve and mop helplessly at your eyes; I hold you close, Mairon; I tell you that I love you. I can feel the twitch of your lips against my skin, and you nuzzle against my chest, but remain silent.

I tell you that it is all right; I tell you that I understand.


End file.
